And without another word she ran down the path, and out of the gate.  Mrs. Wicket stood looking after her in silence.  Then, with a sigh, she turned, and went indoors.  But Anna ran and ran until she was tired.  As she ran she kept saying to herself, over and over, “I won’t be like that, I won’t, I won’t.”

It seemed to her as though she were running away from Hillsboro itself, running away from Mrs. Wicket, from her mother, from Thomas Frye, from Anna Barly, from everything she wouldn’t be. . . .

“I won’t,” she cried, “I won’t, I won’t, I won’t, I won’t.”

“Never.”

Mr. Jeminy, who was seated on his coat by the side of the road, got up with a smile.  “Well, Anna Barly,” he said.

“Ak,” she whispered, clapping both hands to her mouth, “how you scared me.”  She could feel her heart beating with fright; her lips trembled, her eyes filled with tears.  She stood staring at Mr. Jeminy, who stared gravely back at her.  “Are you going to run away from me, too?” he asked, at last.

“No,” said Anna.  Then, all at once, she burst out crying.  “I can’t help it,” she cried, between her sobs.  “I can’t help it.  Don’t look at me.”

“No,” said Mr. Jeminy, “I won’t.”  And he gazed up at the tree tops, dark and sharp against the cold, gray sky.

Anna cried herself out.  Then pale and ashamed, she started home again with Mr. Jeminy.  “I don’t know what got into me,” she said.  “I don’t know what you’ll think.”

“I think,” declared Mr. Jeminy, looking up at the sky, “I think—­why, I think this wet weather will pass, Anna Barly.  Yes, to-morrow will be cold and clear.”

Anna did not answer him.  She was tired; she had played, she had cried, now she wanted to rest.

In Frye’s General Store, Mr. Frye and Mr. Crabbe were disputing a game of checkers.  They sat opposite each other, stared at the checkerboard, and stroked their chins.  Farmer Barly stood watching them.  He puffed on his pipe, and nodded his head at every move.  But all the while he was thinking about Anna.  “Pretty near time she was settling down,” he thought.

Mr. Frye jumped over two, and leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smile.  The hops of his own men put him into the best of humor.  It was not that he wanted to win; he only wanted to do all the jumping.  “Let me do the taking,” he would have said, “and you can do the winning.”  When Mr. Crabbe hopped over three in a row, Mr. Frye became gloomy.  He felt that Mr. Crabbe was getting all the pleasure.  “You’re too spry for me,” he said.  “You’re like a flea.  Well. . . .”

“It’s your turn, Mr. F.,” said Mr. Crabbe.

Mr. Frye looked at the board with distaste.  There were no more jumps for him to make.  He pushed a round black checker forward.

“There you are,” he said.

“Here I go,” declared Mr. Crabbe.  And he began hopping again.